


Small things

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Come Shot, Dancing, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Little bit of angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post S3, Surprises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:44:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr ficlets and drabbles. Mostly johnlock.</p><p>Chapter 1: Special delivery - Mike Stamford receives a series of mysterious, expensive gifts<br/>Chapter 2: Follow my lead - Sherlock is still trying to improve John's dancing skills<br/>Chapter 3: Carry on - Greg discovers that things at 221B have changed<br/>Chapter 4: Eruption (RATED EXPLICIT!!) - Sherlock and John get together and come to learn some very interesting things about each other</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Special delivery

Every year, on the anniversary of that fateful meeting in the lab at Bart’s, a package arrives at the home of Dr. Mike Stamford.

The first is a bottle of 50-year-old single malt scotch, which (after a quick Google search) Mike discovers comes with a five-figure price tag. The following year, he receives a bottle of rare burgundy, similarly valued.

That there is never a card attached nor any reason given for the presents is irrelevant. The sender is well aware that while Mike Stamford may be many things, simple is not one of them. The genial doctor, for his part, knows full well who is behind his expensive packages. He understands the sentiment behind them; words are unnecessary.

There are two deliveries he does not expect to receive, but enquiries with the vendors reveal that the orders had been placed and paid for more than a month before the event that drove his dear friend, John Watson, to the edge of despair. Mike receives these packages with a heavy heart and puts them away for safekeeping.

In the aftermath of the good news, another delivery (a box of the very finest Cuban cigars) arrives with something quite unexpected: A wedding invitation.

He does not attend. He has a valid reason (of course he does — he is not a rude man), but the nagging feeling that all is not as it should be plays a part as well.

Another two years pass and then, quite unexpectedly, a young woman appears at his door with a final parcel. This time there is a note. The handwriting is messy and almost childlike and instantly recognizable (even if he hadn’t already known the identity of his benefactor). There are only two words:

_Thank you._

______________________

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“What’s this?”

“What’s what?’

“The box on the table.”

“No idea. Arrived last night. Open it.”

“It’s…holy hell!”

“What?”

“No, don’t just grab it like that — jesus! Do you have any idea what that’s worth?”

“As it happens, I know _exactly_ what it’s worth. Champagne of this vintage routinely goes at auction for upwards of £10,000.”

“Shit.”

“Is there a card?”

“Uhm, yeah. Here.”

“Do you want me to —?”

“Just tell me who it’s from.”

“Ah. Well, I already know who it’s from. But as to why it is here… _’Sherlock, I saved this one. Hoped you might need it someday. Love to John, and congratulations._ ’”

“Huh. Sorry — who’s it from?”

“Mike Stamford.”

“Mike, but…”

“Come on. Take this and meet me in bed. I’ll get the glasses. There’s something I’d like to tell you.”


	2. Follow my lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to expand John's dancing repertoire.

"OW!"

"Sorry. It’s just…"

"John!"

"Look, Sherlock, I’m doing my best."

"Just…here. Do you feel it? It’s a heartbeat. My heartbeat. Ga-gung. Ga-gung. Ga-gung."

"Knew it was a mistake to show you _Dirty Dancing_."

"Shut up and move."

"Fine."

"That’s it. Much better. Wait, hold on. Spaghetti arms. You’re invading my dance space."

"I’m just trying to feel your heartbeat again."

"That’s not where my heart is located, _doctor_.”

"Yeah, but I can still feel you throbbing.”

"Damn it, John — if you are ever going to learn how to mambo…"

"Why don’t we spend some more time working on my rhythm?" 

"No — oh, _god_ …”

"Mmmm. That’s more like it."


	3. Carry on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg discovers that things at 221B have changed.

Greg paced in the corridor at 221B, checking his watch.

He’d rung twice (both phones) and texted Sherlock three times. Not receiving a reply immediately didn’t usually worry him. Not receiving a reply after nearly two hours made him twitch.

In the end, the double homicide he’d been calling about had turned out to be less complicated than it first appeared. Donovan had located the set of keys (in a biscuit tin under the floorboards) that had cracked their crime scene — no consulting detective required. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop Greg from wondering what had become of Sherlock and John.

He ~~could~~ should have gone straight home, of course. The weather promised to be lovely and he was taking Molly to Richmond for the day. He needed a shower and a change.

But the BMW satnav helpfully kicked in as soon as he turned on the ignition and the map displayed the last three locations he’d visited before his crime scene: the Yard, Molly’s flat and…221B Baker Street.

The duration of his drive over had been spent cursing. He didn’t mean to worry about them as much as he did. They were grown men, they were not his responsibility (though Mycroft Holmes occasionally suggested otherwise) and they had all moved past Sherlock’s faked fall/John’s ex-wife/whatever the hell Sherlock had been up to with Charles A. Magnussen. Greg had finally begun to relax a little.

He hadn’t called for air support this time.

Arriving at just a little before 8 a.m., he wasn’t entirely surprised that Mrs. Hudson had been the one to let him in. He was a little surprised, though, when he’d arrived upstairs to find both doors closed and locked. He’d often found one door or the other closed, but never both. And never locked.

He’d begun knocking, patiently at first. He’d considered banging on the bathroom door, but that felt…odd. He’d called both their names, and re-checked his phone.

And now his watch informed him that he’d been standing outside the flat for nearly ten minutes and he hadn’t heard a thing from either one of them.

Greg turned on his heel to make his way up to John’s room when the kitchen door suddenly swung open.

“Greg!”

John was tugging a stripped terry dressing gown closed and belting it. He looked rumpled and a little sleepy, Greg thought. His greying hair was standing up at strange angles.

Greg moved back to the door. “Ah, look, sorry about this. But I’ve been calling and texting and I didn’t hear and I started to worry. A bit.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Just over-reacted. You’re all fine, then?”

“We, uhm, sure. Yes. Yeah. We’re…fine,” John hedged. It looked very much like he was trying to keep from smiling.

“Right,” Greg said. He watched the doctor with narrowed eyes. “Were you sleeping on the sofa?”

John’s lips pursed immediately. He glanced up at Greg (furtively?) before finally blurting out, “Shower.”

Puzzled, Greg was about to remark that John was remarkably dry (including his hair) for someone who’d just been in the shower when a rumpled mass of white appeared in the kitchen.

“Is that…Sherlock?”

The shrouded body swung immediately in the direction of the door. A tiny patch of face appeared in the centre of the white sheet bundle, revealing a wide-eyed detective.

“Are you…” Greg looked between the two men, puzzled. “Sherlock, are you ill?”

Sherlock stared at him, eyes still wide and incredibly luminous. _Oh no._

“Oh my god, are you high?”

“No!” John shouted, moving to intercept as Greg took a step toward Sherlock. “No, he’s not. I promise you, Greg, he’s not on anything.”

John glanced over his shoulder, a strange expression on his face as he looked at Sherlock. He turned back to Greg, lips pursed. “Not exactly.”

Greg waited for Sherlock to chime in, take over. Instead, the detective stood unmoving where he was, the sheet slowly drifting down at the back revealing — well, it could only be described as a tuft of mangled curls standing straight up on the right side of his head and…

“Is — is that a _love bite_?”

John’s face changed colour. He cleared his throat, suddenly unable to meet Greg’s eyes. “It, uh…”

“Are you…” Greg leaned in, still a little taken aback by a silent and thoroughly subdued (post-orgasmic?) Sherlock Holmes. He whispered to John, “My god, really?”

John cleared his throat again. “Uh, yeah. Look, Greg — ”

Lestrade watched in awe as Sherlock suddenly pressed himself into John’s back and dropped his head to bury his face in John’s hair. John couldn’t stifle his grin this time, and reached back with one hand to pat Sherlock’s hip.

“Okay. Okay. Right, then…I should just be going.” Greg started to back away.

“If there’s a case,” John started.

“Don’t worry about a thing. We'll be fine,” Greg said cheerfully, pausing at the top of the top of the stairs. He looked back at the pair with a wink. "Carry on."


	4. Eruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get together and come to learn some very interesting things about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RATED E FOLKS!!! I have no excuses. This is some very weird PWP that came to me (if you will pardon the pun) while doing some research. Sorry ;)

John turned onto his side and snuggled closer to Sherlock's body. It was too warm for cuddling, really. But when a man finally realizes he is in love with his best friend, and that best friend finally reveals the feeling is mutual, well, not even a sticky summer morning could put a damper on the need for closeness.

In fact—John mused, as he let his palm rest on Sherlock's lean abdomen and rise and fall with each slumbering breath—this was only their fourth time sharing a bed. Confessions made and desperate first kisses aside, they had decided to take things slowly. Physical intimacy was not the only kind of intimacy, and they both had some adjusting to do.

So for a couple of weeks, they'd experimented with holding hands, greeting each other with chaste pecks and long, fierce hugs accompanied by mutual deep sighs of relief. Next, they'd graduated to a little cautious exploration—shirts off and permission granted for fingers and lips to connect with bare flesh where they would. John had always been a little ticklish, so he'd had to apologize several times during this part of their journey, for unnerving his skittish, virginal partner.

Oh, Sherlock had all sorts of technical knowledge. Anatomical diagrams, maps of the human nervous system and research into human erogenous zones all resided within the walls of the Mind Palace. Practical experience, though, was another story.

John had already strongly suspected that Irene was not labouring under a misapprehension. When Sherlock finally (grudgingly) confided the secret of his relatively untouched state, John had held him close and kissed his cheek and told him over and over how much he loved him. John had stroked his back and assured him that it made no difference whatever and that Sherlock could have whatever he wanted from this new dimension to their relationship.

But giggling and twitching every time Sherlock tried to touch him was less than helpful. John wanted Sherlock to process intimacy in his own way and in his own time—to catalogue sensations and John's responses and gain confidence in his own ability to give John pleasure and to take it, too. It was a delicate process.

Until it wasn't.

A week ago, with no case on and Sherlock practically vibrating with boredom, John had been sat in his chair searching the papers for something to capture his detective's attention. He had not been prepared to look up and find Sherlock stripped bare and standing directly in front of him with a rather impressive erection. He'd nearly swallowed his tongue.

Needless to say, he had not hesitated. He'd jumped to his feet and eagerly followed Sherlock to the bedroom.

Sherlock was no longer a virgin—in any sense of the word. Within three days, they'd had sex in every room in the flat (and Mrs. Hudson's foyer) and had fallen asleep post-coitus on the floor, the sofa and even once in the bath.

When Greg called, they'd been thrown headlong into a case that had kept them from home for three days. So it was that John had the privilege of waking this particular morning to the delightful sensation of his fourth full night in Sherlock's bed and embrace.

John watched the play of the soft morning sunlight over the sharp lines of Sherlock's lovely face. There was a crease along one cheek where his face had clearly been smooshed into the pillow at some point during the night. His full lips were slightly parted and while not quite snoring, he was making a delightful little noise with each exhale. Sort of a squeaky sigh.

God, it was adorable.

John smiled to himself and reached up to brush the mussed hair back from Sherlock's brow.

“Mmmmmm,” Sherlock responded, shifting a little from his position on his back. He curled toward John, like a sunflower following the sun's rays.

“Morning, my love,” John whispered.

“Mmmmmm,” Sherlock repeated, twisting and stretching beneath the fine sheet they'd draped over themselves the night before.

“I missed you,” John continued softly, brushing the backs of his knuckles over Sherlock's now-bare chest.

“Didn't go anywhere,” Sherlock grumbled groggily. He sighed heavily and his eyes finally opened. He watched John intently. “Did you?”

“Oh, no,” John assured him with a kiss to the end of his nose. “Nowhere else in the world I'd rather be.”

“Then what—”

John sighed. “I just meant that as much as I love sleeping with you, sleep is hard. I miss the sound of your voice...”

John stroked up the length of Sherlock's neck and over his larynx.

“And I miss looking into your beautiful eyes...”

He leaned in to kiss each eyelid.

“You're such a romantic,” Sherlock huffed, trying—and failing—to sound bored by the whole thing.

“I am,” John agreed cheerfully. “I love you more than I thought was possible.”

Sherlock stared at him for long moments, unflinching and calm. Finally, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “I love you, too,” he said, slipping his hand into John's where it rested between them.

“Thank you,” John whispered. He raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed the back of Sherlock's fingers. “I love this—being able to lie beside you and tell you how much I adore you.”

“Me, too,” Sherlock agreed. His expression became a little pensive. “However...”

“Yes?”

“There is something to be said for...”

“For...?” John prompted.

“Carnality,” Sherlock finished softly, not looking John in the eye.

“Oh?”

“Well, yes.” Sherlock began shifting closer. He met John's amused gaze and looked a little sheepish. “Yes, I just think that, well, we're both here, in bed, together. A-a-and as luck would have it, we're both, you know...”

“Naked?” John supplied.

“Yes. Exactly. And then there's the other thing.”

“Which other thing?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and pressed in. John felt a thigh brush up and against his own. “It is morning, after all.”

John chuckled as the very rigid evidence of Sherlock's morning wood bumped into his leg. “Yes. Yes, it is,” John agreed. His body responded instantly to Sherlock's nearness and arousal. He kissed Sherlock tenderly, lingering over the delicate shape of his upper lip. “And what would you like to do about that, carnally speaking?”

Sherlock dipped his head to nuzzle at John's neck. “Would you...touch me? Please?”

“I would love to,” John breathed.

He rolled into his lover's body, tilting Sherlock's face up for more kissing. Sherlock eagerly eased back into the mattress, allowing John to weight him down and cover his body. John pressed them together from chest to hip, and kissed Sherlock until he was breathless.

The heat and the sweat and the slightly sour morning breath, along with his own moderately uncomfortable position, should have been enough to kill the mood for John—certainly had been in the past. But with Sherlock, with everything so new, he couldn't wait to touch and taste. He was still eager, still a little desperate for the chance to connect with the man he loved in this wonderful new way.

Sherlock moaned into his mouth, his hips began to buck into John as he tried to get friction against his throbbing cock. “Please, John. Please...”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

John rested back onto his right arm and reached down with his left hand to smooth over Sherlock's belly. He continued teasing kisses as he slipped his fingers down into the thatch of dark curls at Sherlock's groin. Sherlock gasped as John's fist closed around him.

Sherlock pulled away from John's kisses so they could watch each other as John began to stroke. He pulled on the heated length, long and slow to begin, using Sherlock's foreskin for friction—just enough to get Sherlock really warmed up.

Sherlock gazed at him with heavy lidded eyes. His lips had been kissed pink and were a little parted as he panted his need. “J-john. Feels soooooo-oh good.”

“I want you to feel good,” John growled, dropping his head until their brows met. “I want you to burn and shiver and shake and come. I want you to come all over yourself. Like...like....”

“Nnnnnno,” Sherlock moaned.

“My sexy volcano,” John teased, chuckling. “You're just like after the explosion and the ash, with the lava just flowing up and out. I love the way you come. God, it is so fucking gorgeous.”

“N-not—don't...” Sherlock moaned again as John rubbed over his fraenulum. “D-don't say that. It's just...”

“The way you come is perfectly normal, my love,” John assured him gently. “It's amazing.”

“S-stop.”

John brought his left hand to his mouth and licked the palm thoroughly. Sherlock mewled at the loss of the touch.

“Easy, now,” John gentled. He returned his hand to Sherlock's cock and began to stroke again. “My little Mauna Loa.”

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and his head dropped back. He dug the fingers of one hand into John's bicep and the other he busied with tweaking at one pebbled nipple. “Ohhhhhh, John.”

“My little Pinatubo.”

“Sh-sh-shut....uh-uh-up.”

John hummed his delight into the soft flesh of Sherlock's neck. “I love you.”

“L-love you. Oh, John. My John.”

“You're close, aren't you?”

Sherlock nodded mindlessly. “God, so close.”

“I want to see,” John begged.

Sherlock's eyes flickered open. “What?”

“I need to see you come, my love. I need it so badly,” John urged huskily. “Push the sheet away and let me watch your pretty cock. Please?”

Sherlock stared at him, gasping as John continued his concentrated attention to Sherlock's prick. Sherlock nodded once. He freed his hand from John's arm and flung the sheet away. John kissed him before turning his head to watch his own hand furiously stroking Sherlock's length.

“Ah, ah, ah....John. Oh, god....”

“That's it, sweetheart. You are so beautiful. Look how you fit in my hand. So beautiful. Come on, let go. Come for me, my little Krakatoa.”

“JOHN!!!”

Sherlock's body jerked and his back arched as he came, and—as promised—a stream of milky liquid oozed from his tip, out and over John's hand, making a lovely, puddled contrast with his dark pubic hair. Sherlock strained as his body pulsed. John eased off a little, but continued to stroke him through his orgasm, whispering endearments into his lover's cheek.

When he was certain Sherlock had completed, John hurried to sit up. He straddled his lover's hips and began to fist himself furiously over Sherlock's body with his come-covered hand.

“Christ, oh, christ. I'm so hard I feel like I'm going to burst. FUCK. Watching you makes me so hot. Oh, god, oh, god....Sherlock, Sherlock...Sh—”

John's head dropped forward as he began to shoot all over Sherlock's chest and come-covered crotch. He bucked into his own fist as he came, riding the crest of a gorgeous climax. When he was finally finished, he slid sideways and fell back to the mattress to lie tucked up against Sherlock's side.

“That was a very good idea,” he declared breathlessly. He reached for Sherlock's hand and pressed it his chest.

“It was,” Sherlock agreed drowsily. “Don't know why I come like that, though.”

“Not that it matters to me,” John began gently, “but lots of factors influence ejaculation—what you've eaten, how hydrated you are, when you last came....and practice.”

Sherlock's head snapped around. “Practice?”

“Oh, yes,” John assured him. “If you really, really want to shoot for distance—which will probably have no impact on your orgasm, by the way—we can probably get you there.”

Sherlock beamed at him. “Can we?”

John leaned in to kiss his cheek. “If it really matters to you, of course.” John sighed, snuggling a little closer. “I'll miss calling you my sexy volcano, though.”

Sherlock sighed. “I'm sure you can find something else to call me. If you really must.”

“As long as you don't mind.”

There was a long pause. Sherlock leaned in to kiss John gently. “I don't. Not really.”

“Okay.”

“Shower?”

“Shower.”

Sherlock leapt from the bed and reached back for John. “Come on. You've got to clean up your mess.”

John grinned as he allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. “My pleasure.”


End file.
